To the future, with love
by QueenOfSpain
Summary: Hey, it's something new!
1. Chapter 1

Hey all, I'm back from good ol' Germany! I haven't finished the next chapter in my other fic, so I thought I'd post this and see what y'all thought. I've never written from the point of view of a professional before. If stuff doesn't match up, tell me in a review and I'll correct it. Give me input, ideas, anything, because frankly, I have no idea where I'm going after this.  
  
Oh yeah, any good Beta readers out there? I'd like someone to edit scheisse and stuff--- Anyway---  
  
Disclaimer: I own everything except Holmes, and if Watson comes along, I don't own him either.  
  
9 months ago, I started an internship at Holy Family hospital in England. I shipped myself off from America right away when I heard of this program they had. I wanted a change from regular nursing, and the hospital offered "in-home care" for the elderly and disabled. This was very different from the hectic environment of the ER, so I jumped at the chance. Plus, I got to travel and the pay wasn't bad---  
  
My assignments for the first months were pretty easy. Basically, I just had to force-feed some old people their pills, make sure the O2 levels were alright, that sort of thing. I soon found out that the "head honchos" were just easing me into the whole thing. After my orientation, one of the heads, Janice, reassigned me.  
  
"Miquella?" Oh God, I knew that tone of voice. That was the tone people had when they were up to no good. Janice was trying pretty hard not to smirk. "We decided to reassign you to someone a bit more---challenging. We thought that it would be good for you to gain experience, and you have shown real promise and brilliance, so you ought to be able to handle it." No, you mean, "You're the greenie and the only one who we can dump this on."  
  
"Great, sounds like fun. Tell me about the patients."  
  
"Patient," Janice corrected me. "You are to live with a Mr. Sherlock Holmes---"  
  
"Yeah, ha-ha. This has gotta be a joke. Sherlock Holmes doesn't exist."  
  
"Well, this one does. He's still fully- functional, but he belongs in a home for the elderly. He needs therapy, and the basic geriatric care. You will be getting his chart, so you can see these things for yourself." Great, I love surprises. Wait---  
  
"Did you say I had to live there?" That's different---  
  
"Yes, like I said, he belongs in a home for the elderly. He has problems with balance and he lives alone out in the country in Sussex. If anything were to happen to him, no one would be around to help him. He doesn't have any family or friends to go out and check to see if he's still alive."  
  
"Why doesn't he just put himself in a home?"  
  
"I believe he said something about 'losing dignity'. I believe you have a show in America called 'Frasier'? Think of yourself as Daphne."  
  
"Ha-ha, I'm glad you have a sense of humor about this."  
  
So that was the end of that. I was going to go take care of a guy who claimed to have the same name as a fictional character. With my luck, he'd have Dementia and think I was Watson, or something. Wunderbar. I was sent out to the middle-of-nowhere within the week (making arrangements with my housing was very easy, since it was provided by the hospital, and I owned so little that it was easy to pack up in that amount of time).  
  
The house the Mr. Holmes lived in was surprisingly large. I was picturing more of a cottage (or a hut, like what Yoda lived in---), but it was a nice- sized house, with two-floors (the second floor would probably be all to myself) and a red brick exterior. There were a few white boxes that I took to be beehives and a small rose garden in the back.  
  
I knocked twice on the door to announce my presence and opened the door to a modestly furnished foyer. Mr. Holmes walked in from the adjoining room. He looked much different from how I had pictured him. I thought he'd be shriveled up and bent over a cane (again, think Yoda). He stood tall at about 6ft., but he leaned heavily on a cane. Mr. Holmes was a bit on the thin side, and surprisingly enough, his muscle mass had not deteriorated in his age. He had a head of thick gray hair, and he had a proud, dignified, and intimidating manner. In fact, the only real sign of any malady was the swelling of his joints, especially in his knuckles.  
  
I stood unflinchingly before Mr. Holmes while he sized me up. At long last, he spoke in a surprisingly clear, crisp voice, "Yes, you will do, I suppose. You don't scare easily, as opposed to my last nurse, whom I managed to scare off in a couple weeks." Encouraging.  
  
I decided it would be a good idea to introduce myself. "Hello Mr. Holmes. My name is---"  
  
"Miquella Halverson," He finished for me. "A unique name for your French heritage." I must really look French. Pale skin, dark hair and eyes.I probably have French written across my forehead.  
  
"Yeah, I guess so, but we Americans are mutts. Our cultures all mush together."  
  
"Hmmm," Mr. Holmes said as he was thinking. "You have just moved here from America, you have no family to speak of, your hobbies include flower arranging and walking, and---" he hesitated here and eyed me good- naturedly, "You enjoy dancing and singing in private." I was pretty sure that wasn't all written across my forehead.  
  
"That was fun," he said, looking mighty pleased with himself. "I was reading before you came, so I am going to get back to that. You go make your room comfortable. It's the only bedroom on the second floor. You may have the entire floor to yourself; I can't make it up the stairs anymore." And there's my dismissal. Mr. Holmes walked with some stiffness back to the other room.  
  
It turns out that Mr. Holmes had become arthritic in his old age and needed very minor care. He needed therapy and assistance with certain things around the house. Basically, all I was there to do was to make sure he didn't fall and break a hip, as the elderly tend to do. I suspected I was hired as company more than anything. I would have rathered any other job, being that Holmes could be a rather ill-tempered man, but I couldn't refuse it. There was something drawing me here, something about him that made me want to stay, something familiar--- Oh, I'm such a stupid girl, off in some dramatic dream land--- He probably reminded of an old college professor or my grandfather, some old guy who was pretty smart and wise, but a bit on the flighty side.  
  
Speaking of being a professor, Mr. Holmes loved to read. He always had some tattered book in his hand. Once, when I was charting in the library downstairs (I found the second level lonely), I actually found out what he was reading. Mr. Holmes had thrown his book down in disgust.  
  
"Something you don't like?"  
  
"I can't believe people publish this garbage," he snarled.  
  
"Whose garbage was published?"  
  
"Poe's."  
  
"Dupin did something stupid like overlook the painfully obvious," I said offhandedly, without looking up from my charts.  
  
Mr. Holmes was shocked. "You also think that Dupin was stupid, even though his deductive reasoning was superb?"  
  
"Yeah, stupid is as stupid does. Anyone stupid enough to overlook something that close to his face deserves a good beating."  
  
Mr. Holmes seemed pleased for some reason. "I agree," he said, and went back to his book. I could swear he was smiling smugly, but again, it was probably my imagination. This was just the beginning of his odd behavior. He was always testing me. One time, I was buying groceries at the market and an 5' 5'' old man approached me with his bread cart.  
  
"Would ye like a loaf of bread?" The old man had a Scottish accent (if you couldn't tell---).  
  
"Sure," I said as I fiddled with my purse, never actually looking at the man. When I looked up, I was surprised. The old man hadn't changed, but I looked him in the eye for the first time. "Mr. Holmes, take off that silly disguise! How'd you get down here in the first place?!"  
  
He looked pleased. What? "So you recognized me." He was beaming. "Good."  
  
"No matter how good your costume may be, if I look you in the face, I'll know it's you."  
  
A big smile. "How?"  
  
"Your eyes. They give the game away."  
  
He laughed. "That's not the first time I've been told that."  
  
Mr. Holmes was in good spirits for the rest of the day. I had no idea what kind of pleasure he got from these strange little scenarios, but then---  
  
I got bored one afternoon, so I meandered around the storage room on the first floor. There were all sorts of paraphernalia, like a beat- up hat, a long cloak/jacket type-of-thing, one, just ONE slipper and other totally random objects. What caught my attention were piles of papers tied up, along with volumes of books and a 100 year old trunk.  
  
I dusted the thick layer of dust off the ancient trunk. Curiosity getting the best of me, I opened it. Inside were bundles of papers tied up, odd knick-knacks, and tattered books. I picked up a book and felt my breath catch. This is impossible; it's the year 2003---  
  
I heard Mr. Holmes chuckle from the doorway. "I was wondering when you'd find them."  
  
My throat was suddenly dry. "I don't believe it."  
  
"Why? You have known since you arrived."  
  
"It's impossible," I said flatly.  
  
He shrugged and held out his arms. "Then explain how I'm here, and explain the name in the cover." I hesitated. "Read it and it may answer some of your questions."  
  
"Alright Mr. Holmes, time for you to go to bed." I practically threw the old man in bed, and after doing so, I settled into a recliner and opened "The Journal of Miquella Halverson. 1889." 


	2. Chapter 2

This is a v. short chapter, but I wanted to get this up before I forgot about it. It's been sitting in a folder for a year now, so I figured that something was better than nothing.  
  
Thanks to all who reviewed!  
  
Oh yeah, and I need a Beta reader-person.  
  
____________________________________________________________________________ __  
  
Journal 1889:  
  
I'm a horrible housekeeper, and my lack of talent doesn't end there. I'm a wretched cook and my stitching is crooked; I am neither ladylike nor graceful (my clumsiness has led many of pieces of china to their fateful end) and my smart mouth has gotten me more trouble than good. I don't belong in this position in the least, but what is a girl going to do? I know very well that this is where a woman ought to be until she gets married. Then, she can make connections in the snooty hierarchy of her clique and host parties for the sole purpose of climbing the social ladder; sitting around all day talking with the ladies. Marriage is not high on my list of priorities, even if it means being a housekeeper for the rest of my life. THEN AGAIN, I'm willing to do close to anything after all the embarrassment I've been through.  
  
It was during my first couple of days on the job at 221 Baker Street and I was staying with my Aunt Marie in A. Two of the strangest people to ever live stay above us in B - one man is handsome by most people's standards; a military doctor with a limp and a very kind personality. The other man is an odd one - 6 ft tall and deeply concentrated on something people probably don't pretend to understand (though, I wouldn't know, it being my first days). He is thin and angular in a good way, his gray eyes take in everything while looking down his thin, pointed nose. He is quiet and prim, with his black hair always slicked back. I like to watch him whenever I can. There is something so intriguing and mysterious about him. When I am able to look him in the eye, I see this spark, something that drives him to the brink of self- destruction sometimes. I wish I knew what he did for a living, but Auntie refuses to talk with me about it. She tells me to ignore him and the strange comings and goings of his "clients". I determined that I would find out, whether she likes it or not.  
  
I crept upstairs and put a glass to the wall to better hear the conversation between the men.  
  
"Watson," I recognized this voice as belonging to the tall one. "I trust that you have your revolver prepared for tonight."  
  
"It's inside my jacket pocket as we speak."  
  
"Very good." I heard a wrinkling of paper. "We will catch a cab and ride to here, where we will walk to the Pudgy Seagull." What was he going to do at a pub? "It is there that we shall find our man. It is 8:30 right now, so we have one hour."  
  
I took that as my opening to find out what the man opposite Watson did for a living. I made an excuse to Auntie about my feeling ill and for her to not bother me until morning. I locked my door and changed into the darkest clothing I owned. At the appointed time, I crept out my window and onto the cobblestones, and kept myself concealed in the shadows until I heard the voices of Watson and the other one. They called a cab and once they got in, I ran and caught a ride in the back - out of sight.  
  
We arrived in someplace unfamiliar to me. I tailed the men as they walked to the river front. It was obvious that whatever this man did, it was less than reputable. There were drunkards laying in the gutters or stumbling around while talking to a friend that no one but themselves could see, men dealing in the shadows, women dressed in little more than their undergarments calling out to the sailors to indulge their fancies. Not a place I SHOULD be in. Not that I would NORMALLY want to. The air stank of fish guts, stale smoke and liquor, and its cold dampness touched your bones. The establishments were in various states of dilapidation, with pieces of roof missing, windows broken in, and doors hanging on one hinge. It seemed to me that this was the perfect place for something criminal to happen. I logged this thought away, in case it was useful.  
  
As I followed the two, I memorized everything about them. The tall one was dressed in a pea coat and sailor's pants, his dark hair hidden under a black stocking cap. He was made up to look like a race of a darker skin tone, and being a woman, I could JUST spot his make- up line. Watson was also dressed as a sailor and his normally pristine hair was mussed up. There was a scar across his cheek now and he was made to look gruff. He was clenching a cigar between his teeth.  
  
"Holmes," (so that was his name!) Watson spoke in a harsh Cockney accent around his cigar. "Do owi look awright?"  
  
"The accent is coming along brilliantly! You get into character well."  
  
"Owi learned from the best of 'em."  
  
So Holmes and Watson are con artists? They seem to go through their routine naturally, as though they have done it many times before. The two entered the Pudgy Seagull and I hid among barrels along the side of the building.  
  
I was watching the men so intently that everything around me seemed to fade away - tunnel vision, I think the term is. They were just standing around, but I didn't want to miss anything. I was brought away from the scene when I heard a click from behind me.  
  
"What the...?" I felt something hard press against my skull.  
  
A voice whispered in my ear. "Don't make a sound or I'll blow yer bleedin' 'ead off." 


End file.
